


Storm Pale

by Lioness_of_Silver_and_Green



Series: The Casebook of the Editors of Reality [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Metafiction, Multi, Multiverse, Mystery, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 17:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lioness_of_Silver_and_Green/pseuds/Lioness_of_Silver_and_Green
Summary: A Tale about Magic, Masks and MysteriesA Record of the “Editors of Reality” CasesIn the stormy night before Halloween, the purple archer of the Avengers—who is enjoying his well deserved holidays despite the bad weather—, is going to get himself involved into the search all throughout New York for a mysterious magical artifact that it’s turning fictional monsters and characters into real ones. And just because he has meet this persistent ghosty man that calls himself Mr Christmas Ghost. And those two girls that have just become his new tenants sure have a lot to do, what with one of them—the one with the appealing accent— being a mage, and the other the in-other-universe wife of the mysterious man. And the bad guys this time? Multiversal mercenary psychics. Everything is going to be alright. Probably.





	1. October 30th

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time publishing fan fiction, even if I did try to tell this very same story in the shape of a failed webcomic some time ago. I'm aiming for some tricky writing here, merging my own characters with characters I like, mixing in a lot of elements from different fandoms and using different narrator voices for a while. I hope it's not too confusing. I'll post as I finish each chapter, so I'll update without a regular schedule.  
> Also, as you may have noticed already, I'm not a native English speaker; this is as much a way to polish my skills as it is a way to set free the story that has come to my mind. And I want to let you know that I'm going to use Spanish too; at least two of the original characters speak it, and I think some of you may enjoy it.  
> That's all, folks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotify in this whole story here (still in the works) [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/patricia_zaresh/playlist/5ahONQM1AukO0fDZMSEREG?si=mK82qCYHQjSK8nhWKGNf5A).

_Someone once told me that we’re all just electricity._

Outside, in the sky above the streets, an iron dark, grey storm was setting itself. Lightning struck once and twice, each time the sound of the thunder louder as it got closer to home. It wasn’t raining, too cold and dry for that; but still, it made the air buzzing mad.

_Electricity; the very same form of energy that allows our neurons to communicate between themselves, that breathes life into our mechanical devices…_

Clint watched the storm approaching over the outline of the nearest set of brownstones, across the street. It wasn’t night-time yet, but it has darkened enough to look like way pass sunset, each new bolt bringing a brief day-like light to the scape and a glint to the mug in his hand..

_…as well as gives strength and shape the most powerful of the lightning bolts._

“Well, that one struck close”, Clint could hear how nervous Lucky was getting by now, behind him. The storm was just above them and it wasn’t shy the slightest about showing its best fireworks.

_The nature of electricity is a complex thing. But “that someone” was not wrong. At least, not in my personal case, at this very moment; I’m absolutely sure that person was correct. Right now, I’m an electric ghost. I cannot explain why, but somehow, I know that I’m just not dead._

“We better go out running tomorrow”. With a new sip off his mug, Clint stopped glancing outside and retreated back to his living room, just in time to feel the strike of a new thunder that turned said room to the pitch-dark. “Oh, that’s just perfect. And now power is about to black out.”

_Have you ever dream that you know about certain things in a given situation, but you really don’t get how you do? It’s that kind of feel._

Power went back and seemed to stay, so Clint took the chance to lower his blinds almost all the way “Lucky, we’re sleeping downstairs tonight”. He wasn’t going to risk having an accident because he was walking down in the middle of the night and power had gone out again. In a haste, he up and down the stairs to use the restroom and grip pillow, blanket and alarm clock, then he switched off the lights and got himself comfortable on his battered couch. He was sleeping like a log within barely minutes, deaf to the world. But outside, the storm was still rocking hard, every second more alive.

_Speaking about dreams, they’re as fascinating as electricity themselves. I’ll tell you why. In our dreams, we can live through our memories again, even if varnished with a more intense shine. Sometimes they’re good remembrances, like those that make us fall in love again._

In his dream, Nat was looking back at him, smiling under the mild light of the damp and hot summer sunset in New York’s JFK. It’s been a while since that day, Clint though. They weren’t still wholly the good guys, she was still playing with him now and them. Still flirting, still more lovers than friends. She was gorgeously mysterious and mature, dangerously captivating: his true first love.

_Memories in which we feel supported by our friends, in which we are reunited with those who we call our mates._

In his dream, he was again in the old days of the Avengers, the old team, still in a piece. The ones he was in good terms with, the ones he looked up to and the rivals; the ones he wanted to love and the ones that never loved back. Like the Witch.

_With those we deem as family._

A thin, pale and small kid was merrily laughing surrounded by his elders while a tall woman in a space skinsuit, with purple cornrows and honey skin—an alien, or maybe an elf—, ruffled his light brown bangs. He knew her. He also knew the kid—his brother, long gone. The child’s green eyes smiling while pushing her arm aside, and his little sister mischievously snickering behind. A strong but soothing hand held the kid in place—his uncle, or was it his mother’s friend? Or an older brother to them? He didn’t know, his memories were vague. This wasn’t his dream.

‘Who…?’

_With those we deem as family._

In his dream, Katie—what a girl— was shooting her arrows right and left and putting down the bad guys. Yellow angry chemsuits kept coming ready to fire their guns in the middle of a dynamic scene of suspended dirt and dust that never ceased to move, covering them from their aim. She has grown a lot since the Registration Act, and she still was getting bigger—definitely, not a sidekick anymore. Nowadays, she barely dropped by his apartment. He was starting to miss her.

_But some other times, dreams bring in melancholic and sorrowful memories. Unalterable memories in which we go live through our past mistakes once again. The farewell to our dearest ones, whom we would see never again._

One after another, memories continued their leaking into his mind like an unstoppable stream. A forced smile under sad eyes dressed the face of the girl he liked just before she fitted her helmet and entered her cockpit, ready for launching into the battle that was about to start; it was a goodbye, but neither of them knew yet.

A young man this time—his uncle, and again a goodbye; but here both were in the know of their mutual and ultimate departure, his uncle’s look serious and his voice soft despite the sorrow of having to give up the little he still had for the sake of the boy he once swore to take care and protect. But, Clint thought, neither he had liked that girl, nor the young man had been his uncle and protector.

_The grief we would feel for the loss of someone we had loved._

The world was in crimson, and golden and purple. The day Bobbi died in his arms, or the day he though Bobbi was dying in his arms. Life sure is complicated sometimes, especially when you consider aliens and super heroics and alien conspiracies and what’s not. It was all in the past now, but he still felt the pain and sorrow from when he thought he had just lost the love of his life. Or the love he thought it was of his life at the time. They weren’t an item anymore; and even if they still cared for each other, emotional wounds, misunderstandings and disagreements made them grow distant. But at that time, with Barbara last breath, he had thought it was a goodbye.

_The grief we would feel for the loss of someone we had loved._

Red, and yellow and green. Facing him, no farther than a few steps, his older sister lay on the ground, blood leaking under her torso and wetting her blond long hair and the side of her face. Her green eyes were on him, but already losing their focus; and a silent and soothing _‘hush’_ in her lips that was putting him on ease despite his distraught mind and his racing heart. He didn’t say a word until his end, which—true being told— wasn’t long after hers. This was his last memory from the before, one of not many. He recalls he didn’t cry because he was always so loud when he had cried; and in the after, he couldn’t cry either in a long, long while. Funny how trauma and mind work, regardless of how different you are.

But Clint thought, ‘Whose sister? Whose trauma?’

‘Hey, who is this?’

‘What is this?’

_Fear, guilt, grieve, helplessness… Sometimes, our negative emotions can pile one over another, trapping us into an uncontrollable spiral of bewilderment._

Red, and yellow and green. This was another fragment of memories that weren’t his: a memory of the after. Clint saw how the giant humanoid robot, as big as a five-story building, was blowing up from inside out in a mute, slow motion swirl of golden-hot smoke that reflected in the bronze armour of the colossal knight. He knew that the helmeted girl from before was inside, and felt his heart shrinking; and streams of water falling across his cheeks. And he felt his mind going blank in pain and despair; and then red and angry. And after that, while he started to hear the rumbling of the battle, both heart and mind were filled cold with resolve. All those emotions weren’t his, but Clint knew them first hand as his own.

But still.

‘Hey! Who are you and what’s this all about?!’

_Emotions that pile until dreams become terrifying nightmares._

Vermillion, and golden and purple. The rumbling from the battle was now the quiet babbling of the rainfall. And now Clint was once again living another instant in the other’s life: a memory of the in-between. The clouds over their heads dyeing the atmosphere in warm colours as the raindrops glittered and fell like shooting stars.

It was hot, but he couldn’t stop shaking. He was soaked and covered in mud. He was laying over the soil of the campsite of the mine, and everything hurt so bad. Every hit, every kick, every burn that bastard had done to him hurt, and he was still going to beat him worse. The same bastard that was looming over him right now grabbing a steel pipe. And he couldn’t escape from him. He was so tired, and everything hurt; and he couldn’t even stop him from intruding his own thoughts like a bull in a china shop. The bastard wasn’t even a strong psychic, but he was so tired, and so frightened; and he was a kid, a little kid, wasn’t he? He was allowed to be weak, wasn’t he? He was so tired, too tired to fight back; he wanted his mum, and his dad. He sure should have parents, shouldn’t he?

 _'Hush,’_ a sweet whisper reminded him.

Beyond the shadow of the psycho that was beating his life out of him, as soaked by the rain as he himself was, the village’s witch was struggling to restraint his new older brother, who was desperately shooting at the bastard with the pipe to stop. And the bastard was getting smug about it. It was then when rage started to turn the shivering into still fury. He though, then, that he was going to survive this however he was. And then he, a mere kid, would take care of that psycho, and he wouldn’t hurt any of them anymore. He was weak and small, but smart, resourceful and burning cold with fierce resolve. The rainstorm was a downpour now. He glared the psycho over him and prepared himself to receive any new hit the best he could. The bastard smiled, hold the steel pipe over his head…

‘Stop!’

_Nightmares we only can escape from by waking up._

And struck. 

* * *

Clint opened his eyes wide and without a trace of drowsiness. He was in a bit of a shock, and it took a minute to notice his alarm clock vibrating under his pillow. ‘What the hell has been that?’ he thought, while slowly scanning the room. Ceiling, walls, shelves, tv, stairs, kitchenette, cabinets, island, stools, door, boxes, dog. Also, the dog was awake and approaching. ’Everything in order.’

Shaking off the last bits of his shock, Clint brought his arm to his eyes as if he were to break the spell of that horrible dream with that. “A freaking nightmare.” He ruffled Lucky’s fur between his ears and sit up on the couch, switching off his alarm clock. It was 07:32 in the morning. It was freezing, the light that filtered in between the blinds was scarce, and he could see the telltale trails of raindrops in the unblinded bottoms of the windows. The storm from last night was gone, but it was raining plenty.

“Starting the day on the right foot,” playing with Lucky a little more, he finally stood up.

_His name is Clint Barton, and this is the story of how we’re about to meet one another._


	2. October 31st

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's raining the deluge in New York.  
> Clint and Lucky are settled on enjoying their day off.  
> A new original wild character appears.  
> And the Ghost is filled up with being a passive narrator in the sideways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for foul language in Spanish.  
> Spanish-English translations are provided in the footnotes.
> 
> Don't forget to like, kudoing or comment whatever you feel like either here or there. Some feedback is always welcomed.

_An average day off in Clint Barton’s life, the famous daring avenger, goes as follows._

_After the alarm clock wakes him up at 7:30 AM, he sets his head about one imperious need: a black, fresh, hot mug of coffee. Or two of those. Everything else can wait for a while._

With the maker on the process of giving him his morning dose of the divine elixir, Clint put his couch in order and rose the blinds. So yep, still raining and still cold outside. He turned on stove and heater, gathered hearing aids, phone and a clean change of clothes, and took a brief and hot shower. Starting the day on the right foot.

_Now, I’m going and admit that this arrow-throwing cowboy may be stubborn, insensate, whining, grumpy, deaf as a post and a bunch of more not entirely good descriptive adjectives. But he sure is a fine thing to look at; and even if he sells his “charming ordinary dude”, the man easily expends half an hour smarten himself up. You may get him dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt; but I bet you he will look deadly._

Giving a last glance at his reflection in the mirror, Clint left the bath. He was dressing for a jog when his phone lighted up like a Christmas tree. He found and put his aids on as fast as he could, but by then, he already had a missing call. It was Kate’s. She probably though he still was going adventurous in Morpheus’ realm.

“I’ll call her later,” he said, putting the phone away in his sweatshirt’s pockets, and then he went down. Even if warner, he still needed that coffee before starting his training round. Once he was sat at his counter with a full mug and a piece of bread, he got as comfortable as he could and started reading his one-day old newspaper. Awful anomalous weather over the city, new Mayor elections after a big scandal regarding nepotism, a mysterious accident in the Postal Service involving some tentacle monster, the upcoming exhibition of ancient paper work at the New York Library. Fresh-ish news from the Capital of the World.

_After properly waking up and stuffing himself with a brief but energetic breakfast, Clint picks up Lucky, his canine roommate, and leaves home. First unexpected stop in his route: his caretaker across the hall._

Clint saw the man approaching on his way to the first floor. He wasn’t wearing a cheerful face.

“Mister Sir, basement is flooded and that means washers are dead. So are cable and phone lines thanks to last night storm. And I ain’t fixing that,” said the self-proclaimed lazy man.

“Hey, morning, man. How’s your day? Good to see you so thrown into your job,” Clint wasn’t going to drop his good mood just because his janitor was impatient and didn’t want to deal with any problem himself. He sighed. “See, I’m not gonna fix it either. Call whoever you need and pass me the bill,” and cut their encounter with a short goodbye gesture. He climbed down the stairs to the ground, Lucky trotting by his side. Clint glanced the mailboxes in the lobby in his way out; three out of eight apartments were empty and, even if he wasn’t penniless, he wasn’t rolling in money either. Repairs were going to cost an arm, a leg and probably both eyes as well. He could use some extra income and renting some of those apartments sounded like a good idea.

_It’s 8:00 AM, and the city is thrilling with life under the heavy rain. So, Clint, refusing to give in his good mood, strolls observant to his next stop; the nearest park where he could run his daily track with Lucky. It’s tipping down, but, who cares? Surely, not him. And because I don’t either—rain doesn’t even moisten my spectral body, it seems—, this time, instead of following him everywhere, I’m going to sit my almost royal buttocks here on some bench and let the time pass, while I contemplate the scenery until the Avenger is done. “Keep up the hard work, mate!” I shout, but it takes null effect._

Phone let him know it was 9:00 AM, and Clint decided that there was already too much water on him. He started trotting his way back home, Lucky on a leash by his side again. When he was arriving to his quarter, he came across a small real state agency. He stopped under its overhang and peered at the window, recalling his earlier though. There were a lot of old apartments for rent, and none of them were cheap; even if he rented it below the market, he could still gain some good earnings. He was calculating how much could be a fair rent when he started to hear someone yelling inside. And then the door opened, and someone was yelling outside.

_Now, come here; I know that his city has above 8.5 million inhabitants—which makes for a really big city, if you ask me—, and this whole planet, right now, hosts a population of around 7.5 billion—which also makes for a real nightmare resources-wise—. So how high are the chances of me, an actual alien to it, coming across the most important person in my life, or rather, her alternate universe, time displaced self? And even so, there she is, the woman I keep and keep and keep meeting once and again._

_“Elly.” My friend, my partner, my love._

There was a girl, not older than thirty, standing in front of the agency’s open door, scowling, impatiently stamping and with her arms akimbo. She was staring inside with storm blue eyes under platinum blond bangs, and about to start yelling again at someone still inside. “We had a contract! We signed it for a whole year, and no way we’re paying you any change in that rent!” Clint noticed an accent in her stressed voice: Scottish, maybe? No, more like Spanish.

A middle-aged man in a cheap suit stepped outside and stayed still in front of her, wearing a vicious smile in his face. “Is that or you get the fuck out, little miss” He was the average New Yorker, with his average accent and his average manners.

“Oh, this has to be so much against law.” She huffed at him.

A second man stepped outside and put himself beside the state agent. He was the literal visual definition of a brawny wall: muscular, bulky and tall, towering both the agent and the short woman. Clint noted how, despite crossing his arms over his chest, he didn’t seem particularly aggressive or menacing, with his face showing a blank, dull expression. “So, go sue me, _señorita_ ,” the agent replied with a confident and mocking smile. “See how long it takes, and what comes first; your permit expiration or that suit conclusion.”

She didn’t surrender. “Yes, sure, because I don’t know how law works here, silly me, uneducated spic, right? So racist and so ignorant. Wait and see how long you last with those tiny savings you clearly made in the middle of that big ass recession we just leave behind when our—have to point— very expensive lawyers close your business, alright?”

He didn’t surrender either. “Heh, I’ll be waiting here for them,“ he replied again with a smug now in his face.

“You are in so, so much trouble. You have no idea who you’re trying to scam.”

He snorted this time. “Sure I know. Just a couple of lisping chicks who think they’re hot shit,” then he shrugged and turned back in to the door. “Tell that MacWitch friend of yours rent has changed. You both have three days for either pay or drag your pretty asses out of the property,” he finished before entering again.

“Holy coercion, Batman! Three whole days!” she snarled at his back, and then glared at the brawny man that calmly turned and ambled inside after him. “’Gasp’— Thank you, sir! Such a considerate offer. I wish you good profit and to fare well! And to step in a Lego piece with naked feet as well!” she replied, gesturing a mocking curtsey.

_I can’t stop looking at her. Because it is her; her same looks, her same voice, her same manners and gestures. Her same sarcasm mixed with politeness as well._

The door closed with a slam and the young woman stood still for a few seconds looking at it, stunned under the rain. Clint was about to call her when she suddenly flared up into a full body snarl. “ _¡Capullo!_ ” she shouted. Then, she paced on the sideway towards a nearby stationed car. “ _¡Chupasangre de los cojones!_ ” she muttered under her teeth, glaring back at the door.

_Her same impulsiveness and her same foul mouth when she’s too angry to endure her ire anymore. Like an erupting volcano after centuries of gently warming and fertilising its surrounding lands._

She was about to kick the car with all her strength when she stopped cold, merely a few inches to the car’s bodywork. Her whole body relaxed, and she sighed, defeated, “ _Mierda._ ”

_Her same fast thinking, fast enough to realise in time that she’s about to do something stupid that she will regret soon afterwards without a doubt. I smiled fondly, “I guess those lawyers aren’t so expensive, are they?”_

Clint watched her sigh again, collect herself under her now opened umbrella, and finally start walking away just when he made his mind about what he was about to do. ”Hey, Blondie,” he called.

She looked at him, a bit of annoyance tinting the curiosity in her glance. She scanned him from feet to head and back, “Kettle, pot,” she murmured, muting her voice. “Is there any problem, sir?”

 _“Sir.” That’s how she’s always towards strangers. She starts polite and respectful, then either melts into more informal manners or uses that same politeness in a more acid way. But even when she warms to you… “She never trusts you fully, mate. I know what you are thinking,” I tell Clint—even if I know he cannot hear my voice—, “but keep that in mind when you help her. Go, be her hero of the day.” But instead, Clint surprises me, replying to himself as if he did hear, “_ Gotcha, _” as he moves to her side._

_This is the first time since I woke up last midnight that I feel like I can still regain my nature of flesh and blood, become a real boy again, before the day ends. Because, maybe I’m a ghost, and maybe I’m lost in a strange land; but I’m not alone here, something’s up and I just found out I somehow can be heard. Today’s October 31st; Halloween. So, I’ll fill myself with hope, I’ll take my chances, and I’ll claim my role as a main character in this tale._

_Because I’m tired of being stuck in the narrator’s role. Because I’ve never really been the idle or passive type. And because there’s nothing more hopeful for a ghost that being the main character on a mystery story in the All Hallows’ Eve._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been in New York and am probably going to fail badly if I go too much into details regarding the Big Apple. And I'm also trying to write different accents and voices for the various characters.  
> So, as much as I may fail, please, bear with me.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Translations
> 
> Spanish / English  
> señorita / missy or miss  
> capullo / jerk or asshole (Spaniard spanish slang)  
> chupasangre de los cojones / fucking bloodsucker (more or less)


	3. Watery Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Susy Rojo. She's very short, and very blonde, and very weird.  
> Meet Kate Bishop. She has bad timing with parties and weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just created a playlist in Spotify for this story. It's still in the works, and I'm still adding songs and instrumental tracks as I see them fitting while I'm writing. You can check the playlist for Storm Pale [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/patricia_zaresh/playlist/5ahONQM1AukO0fDZMSEREG?si=mK82qCYHQjSK8nhWKGNf5A)
> 
> Hope you like it. Please, don't forget to kudo and comment if you like. Or if you don't, or if you want to ask. Anything is good.

Calmly, Clint approached the girl wearing his most honest, concerned face, and he felt an ethereal shadow following closely his steps; closer than Lucky, who was sniffing at some pole. ”Name’s Clint. I heard that. You looking for a place?”, he asked.

She bent her yellow and blue umbrella and arched an eyebrow, curious and suspicious half and half. “I hope you’re not suggesting that I should go living with you, sir. Because I’m not interested at all, honestly.” She struggled to keep an annoyed huff at bay. “I don’t mean to sound impolite, but…”

“Oh, no, no.” Clint held his hands in a haste, attempting to clear her wary mood. He felt a fresh, joyous laugh at the back of his mind. Strange, but warm. “I was just gonna ask for renting out some apartment I own when I saw you arguing with that guy”, he shrugged. “Seems he’s a first-class douchebag, so why not skipping him and go straight to the client?” Suddenly, he felt driven by that force at the back of his mind, almost like a voice, pushing him further into the lands of frankness. “I usually don’t go in the middle of a street trying to hook up with random troubled women I meet, then bring them to my place and make out with then, having a happy time together. Unless they’re dangerous and sexy, and maybe criminal, and they eventually turn my life upside down”, he left out a laugh. “Which, to be perfectly honest, has already happened a few times. Fun times, in a sense”, he finished, scratching the wet hair at the back of his neck, resignation in his face.

“Ah”, she said. She didn’t say anymore for a short while, silently quizzical.

Clint looked at her; and then it struck. ’Why did I say all that? The heck’s wrong with me now?’, he thought, rubbing his closed eyes. The echo of an unsounding giggle and an intermittent on and off rainfall over his head made him open his eyes again, dragging him off his fleeting shame.

With her focus jumping from the umbrella to his crown and back at the thing, she looked like she couldn’t make up her mind between covering him at the risk of soaking herself or covering herself into safety and let him alone to the mercy of the rain. With the difference in height in mind, and drenched to the bone, Clint politely pushed her whole umbrella over her side. “It doesn’t matter. I’m already a lost cause”, he laughed, kindly.

She nodded. “So, Clint…”

“Clint Barton.”

“I’m Susy. Nice to meet you”, she eyed him again, unsure. “Have we met before? I feel like I’ve seen your face somewhere else already.”

He shrugged. “Could be. I’m a bit too well know over here. I live a few blocks ahead”, he pointed down the street.

“Huh, must be that, I guess”, she straightened herself with a flash of resolve in her stormy eyes. “Alright, let’s hear your offer.”

“Okay”, he muttered, hesitating. He hasn’t really thought about it yet, not in detail. And then, once again, he felt that force at the back of his mind and an idea popped in there—out of left field. “You’re two people, right? What about this? I’ve got an available apartment, an old brownstone that’s not renovated. But it’s in good condition; two beds, one bath. Furnished for an adult and kids, though. It’s not large, it’s in the last story—the fourth with no elevator. I live in the same building, so you can come and complain at my door whenever I’m around. Most of my tenants do; it’s like a tradition by now. Same rent as whatever you already have, unless you think it’s too much for the place; I’ll look into what’s the market average in that case. Other terms and conditions can be discussed.” Clint took a breath and looked at her, arching an eyebrow. “Sounds good?”

“A few blocks from here?”

“Half way Quincy Street.”

She seemed like she was definitely considering it—she looked down, meditative with a hand over her mouth and her light gold bangs covering her eyes; but there was something she clearly was thinking about. “My friend arrives later this day. Can we go and see your place this evening? By six or so, if you don’t mind”, she asked, looking hopeful at him.

Again, he felt a warm and soft laugh resonating inside; but this time, it felt as if it was his own. A shared satisfaction with that alien shadowing force. ‘ _You’ve got her. Well done, hero_ ’, he could almost hear a young male voice. “Sure, not a problem.” He fished his cell from his pocket and typed some text. ”Got a number? I can send you my address.” He paused, dubious, ”Or you can write down both my address and number somewhere instead. Whatever suits you best.”

“Bluetooth, maybe?”, she smiled shyly and swung an old and small smartphone in her pale hand.

Clint shrugged, put his cell in line and hit the send tab. “Done.”

She looked and her own cell and smiled, “Done.” And then she suddenly stiffed, wide blue-grey eyes in slight panic, ”Shit!” She quickly put her cell back in her messenger bag and, with a small nod, “Sorry, I need to go now!”, she started to stride with an almost martial pace, towards the same direction that Clint came from.

“I’ll be waiting for you two in my doorway by six. Call if you’re gonna be late!”

She briefly looked back and waved her free hand, quickly resuming her pace.

 _‘Of all the places…’_ that young voice whispered as if it were his own, a mixed fond and awed taste in it. Clint shocked his head. This wasn’t the time to develop some sort of unconscious voice, was it? What was the word… An id? It didn’t sound like one but, then again, he wasn’t a shrink. ‘Whatever’, Clint though with his own voice.

He whistled Lucky to continue their way home. Then his phone started to buzz, having taken not more than four steps forward. Clint looked at the sky above: it didn’t look like the rain was going to stop anytime soon. So, he hurried their pace and answered the call: it was Kate, again.

“You know,” he started, “I wonder if they’d release some fashionable app for when it’s pouring down, and you forgot to bring your umbrella. Like a pym’d-downloadable umbrella, or something. We can call it the AppBrella. Or maybe Wapperproof”, he hummed, “ParAppPluie? Oh, that last one has a ring to it.”

“There is this awesome thing you wear called raincoat, Clint,” he could hear her smiling and rolling her eyes just fine, “you really need to go and get you one. Guaranteed: best invention ever.”

He laughed; and again, he could almost hear the distant echo of a laugh somewhere else around—Weird, so weird. “What!”, he exaggerated a shocked voice. “Does it ever rain in the always sunny California?” She huffed in the other side of the line. Then some unintelligible speaker voice came in in the background. “What’s in your mind, girl?”, he asked with a softer, warmer tone. He stopped in a crosswalk, alone, and looked around. Clint could swear there was someone else walking near his side a few moments ago. And Lucky seemed distracted with the apparent nothingness too—Definitely too weird. “I saw your call this morning. Everything OK?”

“I’m afraid I’ve had to say goodbye to that fantastic south west coast sun”, she puffed, “I arrived like two hours ago. I’m still in the airport. There was some incident in the terminal and they wouldn’t let us leave the plane. But we’re finally out! And… the weather is awful, holy crap.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah, true story! Can you believe it?” She snorted. “I need to stop by my place, prepare stuff for this night. America and the others are having a Halloween party, with costumes and all.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah. I was thinking you could come over as well. It starts at seven.”

“Er…” He has arrived at his building’s doorway. “It’s not that I feel too old to show myself in a party full of teens and tweens but, for once, the absolute truth is that I can’t go”, he pushed the door and released Lucky, who couldn’t wait to run inside and start revolting himself, spraying the whole lobby with dirty water. ‘Oops’.

“Buzzkill”, she sang. “Wait, I can sense something... It’s a woman, right?! You’ve gotten a date”, she whispered almost comically, but there was definitely an annoyed tint to it.

Clint glanced around, taking on the lobby. It was an absolute mess. “Kinda, but not the way you think”, he replied.

She hummed. “Sounds like a story you could share in a brunch.”

“Gena’s, 12:00 PM.”

“Yay! Deal” she softly cheered. “See you later, big guy. Don’t be late”, and then she hung up.

Clint followed Lucky’s trot up the stairs, but with a pang of guilt he looked back at the entrance in its calamitous condition. Again, that young voice came to his head. Now sharper—and pointed; but still more a thought than an actual sound. ‘ _She probably likes clean, salubrious places. Your caretaker doesn’t seem the most willing man. Do the math, hero.’_

‘Right.’ Sighing, Clint went to fetch himself a mop.


End file.
